


Feel My Heart Banging Like a Gun

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amused John Watson, Awesome Sally Donovan, Clubbing, Confessions, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Groping, It's For a Case, M/M, Post S4, Post-Canon, Sentimental Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: The clothes are tight, the music is loud, and the drinks are endless. It's for a case, really.And then it isn't. And then everything changes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 45
Kudos: 218
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Feel My Heart Banging Like a Gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milverton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice, Milverton! 
> 
> Congratulations to the Holmestice Mods for keeping this fantastic exchange going strong for 10 years!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to DiscordantWords, beta extraordinaire.

Shut all the blinds, hang a sign on the door

We can’t stop this anymore

///

Sherlock set his nearly empty wine glass down behind him and leaned back against the bar. Between his perfectly tailored outfit—not a centimeter of fabric to spare—and his artfully sculpted curls, he looked every bit the part of snobbish clubber. He wasn’t, of course, but it wouldn’t do to draw undue attention to himself with the wrong look. Not here, not tonight. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the growing crowd while John sat on the stool next to him and watched the entrance. There was still no sign of their suspect.

Sherlock wasn’t concerned. The night was young and there was plenty of time for Morty Sterndale and his hangers-on to make an appearance. He could be patient in the meantime and enjoy the pleasure of a drink and the company he was with. And besides, there was plenty else to look at. Sherlock glanced over at John, who was still focused on the main door. He smiled softly. John was doing a passable job looking casual and like he was on the pull, not casing out the joint. Sherlock turned his attention to the small dance floor at the back of the club. A throng of bodies undulated to the beat, their sweat glistening under the hot lights as the DJ worked them into a trance. Well, the DJ, the strong drinks, and other, likely illicit substances. Sherlock snorted under his breath. It was Friday night, after all, and this horde could afford the good stuff, especially here.

He and John were at Solstice, one of north London’s more exclusive nightclubs. It was tucked away down a narrow cobblestone alley in Highgate, its unassuming entrance marked only by a copper sign of an intertwined sun and moon that hung over the door. It was a smaller club, the upscale clientele screened by discerning doormen (the tighter the clothing, the better) and by select invitation from management (the bigger the bank account, the best). Solstice prided itself on its discretion and an ‘anything goes’ attitude and it was the latter that brought Sherlock and John there on a rare Friday night out. There had been a string of overdoses at premier nightclubs around the city in recent weeks and a trail of crumbs led from a distraught boyfriend all the way to Morty Sterndale, an up-and-coming club promoter with rumoured ties to one of London’s nastiest drug lords.

Sherlock was asked to get a look in by newly minted DI Sally Donovan, in charge of the case and anxious to put a stop to the overdoses before anyone died. Tonight’s featured DJ was a current favorite of Sterndale’s, who had heavily promoted the retro music event. Sherlock was sure the man himself would be at Solstice that night, to both support his talent and to find willing buyers. Sherlock wanted to observe Sterndale in his element, to see if there was any tangible evidence linking him to the new drug that was causing so many problems.

As Sherlock watched the dancers enjoying themselves on the floor, an unexpected wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over him as he recognized the music, popular during his time in uni. He always did love dancing, especially back then. It was one of the very few ways he allowed himself to be open and carefree, to quiet the noise in his head and give into his physicality. It had been years since he was out at the clubs, but he remembered how it felt to get lost in the music, to let it take him over. Cocaine helped of course, but not always. The right music at the right moment could give him a rush just as strong as his preferred seven percent solution.

He closed his eyes against the swarm of memories, both good and bad. So many memories. He tilted his head back and let the heavy beat flow through his body. That old familiar urge to move surged up in him. When was the last time he danced? John’s wedding? No, not then. Despite the happy faces surrounding him there, he had never felt so alone. No, the last time he danced was before the wedding, when he taught John the waltz. An awkward, intimate experience he would always treasure. One that was a lifetime ago, really. Sherlock stopped fighting the urge to move and let himself sway, almost imperceptibly, in time with the tempo. A few more drinks and he might not be able to resist the DJ’s siren call. What would John think if he gave in and went out on the dance floor? Join him? He grinned at the thought. He could only imagine the expression on John’s face if Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him to the floor. Or maybe he would be surprised. After all, they were no longer quite the buttoned-up men they once were. Things were different now. _They_ were different now. 

John. That he was here with Sherlock tonight was something of a miracle. They’d been through the fires, he and John Watson. More than most people could endure and retain a shred of sanity, or the desire to remain in each other’s company. Then again, the two of them weren’t most people, as they proved to each other time and again through the years. They might have been tested in unimaginable ways, but they always came back to each other. Always.

The nearly nine months since Sherrinford had been quiet, to Sherlock’s great relief. Baker Street was restored and once again a refuge for Sherlock. While John had not (yet) moved back in, Sherlock had paid special attention to creating room for him and Rosie in the hope they would eventually make Baker Street their home too. As much as Sherlock wanted John with him, he also knew they each needed to heal in their own their own ways and he did his best not to pressure John. Time and space had helped. They were getting back on track, as evidenced by John joining him on his first case since Mary’s murder. And Sherlock finally understood, and more significantly accepted, what he has wanted almost from the start. John.

Sherlock continued to sway to the music, wanting to dance, wanting to move with someone, to hold on to someone. To hold on to John. The need and the want didn’t come out of nowhere, but the sudden intensity was a rush. He was tired of denying himself in so many ways. 

A slight cough to his right startled him out of his reverie. He slowly opened his eyes and looked over at John. “When do you suppose—” He stopped suddenly, his breath caught in his throat.

John was staring at him, his own mouth slightly open. He stuck his tongue out and licked his lower lip, slowly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. The intensity Sherlock felt only moments ago flared up again, even stronger. Their eyes locked together, neither one seeming inclined to break the connection. Sherlock was certain a mirror of his own want reflected on John’s face and felt himself lean closer.

The moment was shattered by a glass breaking behind the bar and they both startled upright. Sherlock focused on rolling up his sleeves, needing to cool himself off. John turned back to the bar and took one long swallow of his beer and then another one, nearly draining his pint.

John cleared his throat. “Remind me what we’re doing here again?” He grabbed at his shirt and yanked it down, not the first time that night.

“Stop that.” Sherlock turned and smacked John’s hands away. “You’re being obvious.”

“Obviously out of place, you mean. This shirt is too small, Sherlock. What were you thinking?” John’s hands fluttered near his waist, but he didn’t pull at his shirt again.

Sherlock watched as John tried not to fidget and silently willed him to get over it. He picked out the outfit to meet the club’s stringent dress code, yes, but he wasn’t about to deny his ulterior motives. John wore a fitted deep blue shirt, tight, very tight, with equally tight dark blue jeans. A certain gauntness that had clung to him for months was finally gone and despite his apparent unhappiness with the shirt, Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time John looked so comfortable in his own skin.

“Look around, would you? A particular style is appreciated here. Unfortunately for you, that meant no cardigans or checked shirts befitting someone twice your age.”

“Oi,” warned John. He leaned his elbows on the bar and ran his finger over the artfully pocked and scarred surface. “It’s not just the shirt, you know. I’m a bit old these days to be hanging out at the clubs.”

“Nonsense. We’re far from the oldest here and besides, they’re all too fixated on themselves to care. Keep an eye on the crowd, John. Focus on the case, not your appearance.”

John rolled his eyes. “Easy for you to say when you look like…that.” He gave Sherlock a slow look up and down.

Sherlock blushed. “We need to blend in, which we wouldn’t if I allowed you to dress yourself.”

John glared. “’Allowed’ me?”

Sherlock pushed John’s pint closer and picked up his own drink. Both glasses were etched with the same intertwined sun and moon that hung outside. “Relax, drink. You’re meant to be enjoying yourself.”

“I _thought_ I was meant to be helping you with a case, not having drinks in some posh club with some posh git.”

“Multitasking is a thing, I hear.” Sherlock swallowed the last of his drink and nodded at John’s. “Same again?”

“Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. You’re actually enjoying a night out on the town. Are you sure there’s really a case?”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes, there is a case. This is not my first choice of venue for a Friday night out, but here we are. Doesn’t mean we can’t indulge ourselves a little. The wine is tolerable, as is the company.”

“In that case, next round is on me.” John looked over at the bartender, held up two fingers when he caught his eye, and gestured at the empty glasses. He turned back to Sherlock. “You looked like you were ready to bolt onto the dance floor just now.” 

“This is a nice place, you must admit. Surprisingly not as tasteless as I expected. The music is acceptable too, reminds me of earlier times.” He looked past John at the crowd on the dance floor. “I didn’t intend for you to be so self-conscious, though. Are you really that uncomfortable?”

“I can’t help feeling like the oldest man in the place, but no, not uncomfortable. Not even if I’m wearing a shirt that probably costs more than my first year of uni. I can stand to have a few drinks in a swanky club with you on my arm. It’s not a hardship, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. “Well. Good to know.”

“Sure. I mean, why would it be? Look at you. You and those damn cheekbones fit in here perfectly. Not to mention your hair.” A pause as the bartender set fresh drinks down and removed the empty glasses. “After everything, Sherlock, this is not a big deal. I’m griping about the shirt, but it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t.

The silence stretched out.

John shuffled awkwardly on his stool and finally picked up his pint. “Cheers.” He took a sip and nodded to himself. “So. Back to the case. Morty Sterndale. Tell me more about him.”

“Did you not pay attention when I briefed you earlier?”

“All I know is that you rang up me, told me Donovan had an interesting case and that I needed to meet you at Baker Street in my best jeans. Made me curious enough to agree to come along, I admit, although maybe I should have asked more questions when you tossed this shirt at me." 

“It’s a nice shirt.” 

“It’s too tight. But yes, it’s appropriate. I concede, happy? Come on, the case. Refresh me.”

“As I told you already, there have been numerous overdoses around the city recently, each one at a different nightclub. The common denominator appears to be one Morty Sterndale, ingenue club promoter and wanna-be drug kingpin. The overdoses have all taken place at events put on by Sterndale and he has been making suggestive posts on social media about his activities. He's more than hinting that he has the good stuff if you know how to ask. Luckily for him, so far no one has died, but the Yard is getting rather annoyed.”

“Okay, he sounds like a right prick. But why are _we_ here? Surely Donovan has this covered. She’s not an idiot. No, don’t make that face. She’s not and you know it.”

“Oh, you know how the Yard operates, John. They lack insight and the ability to see what’s right in front of them. Donovan isn’t as bad as the rest, but she still needs me on this. You know we can move around in here much easier than a Yarder. Can you imagine Donovan in here? Or worse, Dimmock? Right now there's no direct evidence pointing to Sterndale. If we’re able to freely observe him and his crew, he might slip and help me give Donovan’s case the in she’s looking for.”

“All I’m saying—” John stopped suddenly as a man approached their end of the bar. He was younger and tall, taller even than Sherlock, with white blond hair teased into something resembling a pompadour.

“Hi, I’m Leo.” The man nodded in John’s general direction, but his focus was on Sherlock. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Only I think I’d remember a face as gorgeous as yours.”

Sherlock preened. His second, no—maybe third glass of wine made him feel lighter, looser, and more indulgent. He noticed John’s back go military straight as John bristled at the interloper and caught a glimpse of the sour look on his face. He tried not to laugh out loud. Oh, John. This was going to be good.

“Yes, I thought I’d check this place out.” Sherlock felt, more than saw, John raise an eyebrow at his accent, deeper and more public school than usual. “You’re a regular here, I take it?”

“It’s a nice club. Great acts, strong drinks…lovely people.” Leo tipped the neon green drink in his hand towards Sherlock.

John inched closer to Sherlock.

“Are you here together?” Leo gestured vaguely at John but didn’t turn from Sherlock.

“Here? Yes. Together…?”

“Yes, hello. Yes.” John spoke up for the first time since Leo’s approach.

Leo went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Having a good time, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s been tolerable.”

“Just tolerable?” He looked over at John and smirked.

“So far.”

“No, no, that won’t do at all.” Leo traced a finger around the rim of his glass. “Face like that, you need to be having the time of your life.”

“Ah, and what do you propose?” Sherlock slouched back and spread his legs, just a little. He knew he was laying it on thick but couldn’t resist. It had been a long time since he was the target of someone’s aggressive attentions, at least in a non-murderous way. He almost laughed again. He couldn’t help but be flattered, obnoxious as the man clearly was. At least his intention was clear.

“You have a body screaming to be out on the dance floor.” In a manner reminiscent of John earlier, Leo licked his lips.

Oh, wait. Tacky. He didn’t miss this. Not when it wasn’t John.

Leo moved his shoulders to the music. “I was hoping you’d have a dance with me.”

“Were you, now?”

“Come dance with me.”

Leo held his hand out to Sherlock at the same time John reached over and gripped Sherlock’s thigh. Hard. The heat from his hand burned through Sherlock’s trousers onto his skin and Sherlock willed himself not to go boneless from shock.

“Ah, ah, ah. So sorry, he promised _me_ his first dance tonight.” John smiled big at Leo, all teeth and no sincerity.

Leo reared back slightly and looked from John to Sherlock. He plastered on a fake grin. “I thought you weren’t together?”

“You were too busy gawking at him to see me,” huffed John.

The smile dropped from Leo’s face. “Your man seems to have a different idea. Better keep an eye on him here. Lots of people willing to step in if you aren’t.” He stalked away.

Sherlock turned to John, who still had a firm hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Really, John?” His voice was back to normal.

“That wanker, Sherlock? Seriously? Ugh, did you see his hair?”

Sherlock snorted.

“And his teeth. Too white,” continued John. “You’re on a case anyway.”

“Remember that when that woman over there in that pink atrocity accosts you on the way to the gents.”

“What woman?”

“Or possibly that barely legal boy in the ghastly orange shirt and bright blue hair. They've both been staring at you for a while now. Options, John!”

John looked over to where Sherlock nodded. “Well, in that case…” He stopped at the look on Sherlock’s face. “Kidding, I’m kidding. I’m not here to pull.”

They regarded each other for a long minute. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Good, that’s good. Besides, I don’t think anyone out there is worth the effort.”

“No, no one out there.” John squeezed Sherlock’s thigh one last time and let go. He clenched his fist a couple of times before picking up his beer and swallowing the last of it. His cheeks were faintly pink.

“Speaking of the gents, it’s time.” John set his empty glass down next to Sherlock’s. “Back in a mo. Hopefully Sterndale will show up before we get too pissed.”

Sterndale. Sherlock blinked. The case, right. Sterndale.

John smiled fondly. “Don’t go anywhere without me, yeah?” He poked Sherlock in the arm and waited for his nod before walking away, wobbling only the slightest bit.

Sherlock took a cursory look around the club. No Sterndale. He tried to recall how much wine he’d had so far, and then decided it didn’t matter. He pulled out his mobile, not remembering the last time he checked it. He was unusually distracted tonight. He ignored the voice messages from Donovan and Mycroft. _Two_ from Mycroft, ugh. There was a text from Lestrade reminding Sherlock the paperwork from the Tregennis case still needed filling out. Sherlock forwarded the text to John, who might be persuaded to forge a signature or two, and then deleted it.

A commotion over by the entrance made him look up from deleting Mycroft’s presumably annoying messages. Ah, the long-awaited Morty Sterndale and his posse had finally arrived. In full plumage too. What _was_ that jacket? Sherlock watched the man sneer and fist bump as he moved through the crowd, hangers-on trailing behind. He sat down in a large semicircular booth in the back corner of the room and was immediately surrounded by clubbers clamouring for any scrap of attention from Sterndale they could get. Or, more probably, drugs.

Sherlock pondered his plan of action now that the case was o—oh. Ohhh. All thoughts of Sterndale and the case vanished as Sherlock spied John weaving his way back to the bar. That shirt really was tight. The deep blue was lovely in contrast to John’s silver hair, and the fit was…flattering. Quite so. Sherlock mentally congratulated himself for picking it out. 

John grinned as he approached Sherlock and sat back down. “Don’t even start.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then cackled. “I was right! Which one was it, Blue Hair or Pink Nightmare?” He crowded into John’s personal space and sniffed. “Pink Nightmare, then. You reek of something floral.”

“Oi, no I don’t!” John laughed and shoved him back.  
  
“What did she do, try to get you to dance? Sneak you off for a snog?”

“She didn’t even chat me up, just came out of nowhere and grabbed my arse!”

“And that wasn’t enough to tempt you?”

“Hardly!”

“Shame, really.” Sherlock knew they were both anything but disappointed. This lighthearted banter was an old familiar game of theirs, one he had missed more than than he realized. 

“All right, all right. Enough. I miss anything? Has Sterndale shown up yet?”

Sherlock glimpsed Sterndale’s booth out of the corner of his eye. The man was clearly loving the adulation and seemed settled in for a long night of carrying on. Sherlock looked back at John, at his open face, quite possibly the most relaxed since before Sherlock’s jump of the roof of Barts.

“He’s not here.”

“Well then, no reason not to have another, yeah?” John motioned to the bartender, who nodded and set to work pouring fresh drinks. “This one’s on you. You owe me and my tender arse.”

“I won’t say no to that.”

And so another round arrived, and then one more. He and John did an admirable job of pretending to keep a lookout for their suspect but they let everything around them fade away. They traded stories, John about Rosie’s latest words and Sherlock about a recent client he found amusing. 

Eventually they quieted. Sherlock noticed they were close enough that their knees were touching and wondered when that happened. He was disinclined to regain any space between them.

John set his empty glass down and tilted his head to the side. “I have to ask. Is there really a case for us, Sherlock?

“Of course. Why would I drag you out here otherwise?”

“Tell me something, then. How long has Sterndale been here?”

Sherlock almost dropped his drink. “Come again?”

John threw him a pointed look. “I’m not a genius consulting detective, but I’d have to be on Anderson’s level not to miss that wanker in the corner being obnoxiously loud.”

Sherlock could only gape.

“I’m pretty sure the DJ has shouted his name once or twice too.” John shrugged.

Sherlock floundered; he so rarely felt truly embarrassed like this. “I’ve been watching him, John.”

“Course you have.”

“I’ve got it under control. He’s not done anything obviously out of line yet.”

“Why don’t I get us one more round and you can tell me why you’ve decided to ignore our suspect and get pissed instead. Donovan’ll want your head if she finds out.” 

“’m not pissed!” He wasn’t, not really. Just pleasantly buzzed. Enough to let go of his mortification, anyway, which suited him just fine.

“Are you sure about that? I’ve been catching up to you all night and I’m definitely feeling it.”

Sherlock thought about scowling, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was the truth, after all.

Something behind Sherlock suddenly caught John’s attention. “Wait. What?”

“John?” Sherlock straightened. 

“Is that…is that Donovan? Sally Donovan? In leather?”

This time Sherlock did knock his glass over, spilling the rest of his drink. “Shit!” He stood and reached over to grab a towel from behind the bar.

John hooted. “How did we miss that? You had no idea either! What were you saying earlier about the Yarders sticking out like sore thumbs? I’d say Sally has blended in perfectly. Ha! Do you think Dimmock’s lurking nearby too?”

Sherlock grimaced and tossed the damp and red-stained towel aside. “I shudder to think. Maybe I knew she was here but didn’t want to create a scene, you know, like we just did.”

“Likely story. She’s coming over,” said John. He slid off his stool and away from Sherlock.

“Evening, lads.” Sally came around from behind Sherlock. “Nice night for it.”

“Hello, Sally. Fancy meeting you here,” said John, trying not to giggle.

“Donovan.” Sherlock flapped a hand at Sally, who was in a knee-length black skirt and black boots. “Is that pleather? Appalling.”

Sally scoffed. “Sure, make fun of my outfit when John’s shirt is practically painted on.”

“Hey!” John smoothed a hand down his chest. “Nothing's wrong with my shirt.”

Sally raised an eyebrow at that and then turned to Sherlock. "I don't know why you're acting so shocked to see me. I did call and leave a message that I would be here after all. I wanted to see Sterndale in person myself."

"You know I prefer to text." 

“I was wondering why you two hadn’t made me yet, but now I see why.” She wrinkled her nose at the collection of empty glasses scattered on the bar. "Really, Holmes?"

“We have been perfectly aware of our surroundings. Maybe we just didn’t want to talk to you,” sniffed Sherlock, as John bit his lip to keep quiet.

“Oh my god, you’re drunk.” Sally’s eyes widened. “You both are! Good thing I’m here, then. You two are officially relieved from duty. I’ve got this handled.”

“Sterndale,” started Sherlock. “He’s—"

“Don’t you worry your sozzled little head about Sterndale. I've been here long enough to get a possible lead on him. Oh, don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I'm not Dimmock. You two go off and do…whatever it is you do.” As she turned to go, she winked at Sherlock, who blanched, and then disappeared into the crowd.

John watched Sally as sauntered away and could no longer keep his giggles in. “Did Sally Donovan just wink at you?”

“I refuse to think about it any longer.” Sherlock wanted to forget the last few minutes had ever happened at all. He squinted at his watch. He was unwilling to end the evening, not ready to go his separate way from John. His buzz was starting to fade as well, and he wasn’t in the mood to be fully sober yet.

“Now that we’ve been dismissed, we should take off. Don’t want to blow Sally’s cover and besides, Leo is still at large and might make another attempt at your virtue.”

“Can’t have that now, can we.” He opened his wallet and took out his card. “How much more time do you have before you need to retrieve little Watson?”

“Actually, she’s with Stella and Ted for the night. They’ve not had her for a while, not since…not since I got my shit together and started taking care of my own child.” He swallowed. “They’ve missed her. When I asked if they could watch Rosie so that I could join you, they offered to take her for the night. Said it was good for me to get back out and this way I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving you in the middle of anything. They’re good people.”

Sherlock felt something stir deep in his stomach. “You’re free for the rest of the night?”

“All yours.” A heated look.

“I’m not ready to go home yet. Aside from being upstaged by Donovan, it's...I’ve enjoyed myself tonight, John.”

“Yeah, I have too. So, what do you propose? Keeping in mind I’m of a certain age now and can’t stay out all night.”

“I believe there are number of places nearby we can go. Have another drink, maybe.”

“Another drink? Yeah, sure. But someplace with food. I’ve not eaten in hours and I feel safe in assuming it’s been even longer for you. We could both use a bite, soak up some of the alcohol.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, doctor. I know just the place. Let me settle up and we can go. How does Chinese sound?”

“Only if it has the right door handle.” John grinned back. “Lead on.”

///

Sherlock took them back to the same Chinese restaurant they went to on their first case all those years ago. It was a spontaneous decision, but it felt right. He didn’t want to relive the past; coming here felt like a fresh start instead. Sherlock wasn’t sure John would remember, but the man sucked in a deep breath when they got out of the cab and he realized where they were.

“Sentiment,” he said to John’s questioning look. “Can’t say I’m immune.”

“No. No, I would never say that now.” John clasped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let’s see if that door handle still meets your exacting standards.”

It did. All of it did. The food, the drinks, the company. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he indulged like this. John’s stag night, possibly? At least this time they wouldn’t drink themselves into a jail cell.

Somehow, but not surprisingly, they found themselves back at Baker Street afterwards. They stood outside, the moment more awkward than Sherlock expected, given how relaxed the entire evening had been.

Sherlock fumbled for his keys and took a deep breath. “Come up?”

John nodded but said nothing.

After a brief struggle getting the key in the lock, Sherlock opened the door and motioned for John to enter first. He followed John up the stairs, careful to keep one hand on the wall for balance, and into the flat.

When he entered, John paused. He took in the room as if it had been years since his last visit, not just hours. He pulled his wallet and keys out of his pockets and dropped them on the table by the door. He walked over to his chair (always his chair) and ran a hand over the back of it. “I can’t believe this old thing is still here, after everything.”

“If it can survive a drone bomb, it can survive anything.” Sherlock came in behind and shut the door. He leaned against it, watching John and marveling at how right it felt to have him there.

John grimaced at the memory. “It's amazing this place is still standing after all of that.”

“Baker Street has proven itself indestructible by now, despite our best efforts.” Sherlock pushed himself off the door and wobbled over to one of the windows to let in the warm night air. 

“You mean yours, you prat. Mrs Hudson and I worked double time to keep the place in one piece while you either tore about it or sulked on the sofa.” He chuckled and then turned more serious. “I fell for Baker Street that very first day, you know. It was such a change from my crappy bedsit, a breath of fresh air. Maybe a bit more chaotic than I expected, what with the toes in the crisper and your toxic experiments scattered all over.”

“You say that like you didn’t love it.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and tapped at it until music started to play. It was softer, slower than the music at Solstice, but still filled him with the need to move. He adjusted the volume and set the phone down on the table. He suddenly wanted a cigarette more than anything, to keep his hands occupied. To keep his hands to himself, really, and to keep from making any more impulsive decisions tonight.

“I did, you know. I loved it, even when you drove me mad.”

“I seem to be exceptionally skilled at that.” Sherlock didn't care for the sadness and the regret underlying John's words. They had done so well this night, staying in the present and not wallowing in the bitter parts of their shared past. Needing to lighten the mood, he walked past John, who still fondling that hideous (beloved) chair, and into the kitchen. “I think I’ve got a bottle of wine stashed in here somewhere. Maybe not the wisest course of action, but I could stand another drink.”

“Why not? Might as well make tomorrow's hangover worth it. Need any help?” John followed him into the kitchen.

“Get the glasses, same place as always.” Sherlock opened a cupboard door and rummaged around. “I swear it was in here somewhere.”

John took out two wine glasses and brought them over, watching as Sherlock pulled out half the contents of the cupboard out and dumped it all on the counter. "Not cleaning that up for you, just saying." 

“Ah ha! Found it!” Sherlock brandished a bottle, triumphant. “You want?”

“Yeah, I want.”

The bottle nearly slipped out of Sherlock's hand at the sound of the desire in John's voice, desire hinted at more than once that evening, but now laid bare. He didn’t dare look at him, not when he knew his own want would be written across his face. He didn’t want to give himself away, not when he wasn’t sure he heard John right. Not when he had too much to lose.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I do, Sherlock. I want.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice trembled.

“Look at me, please.” He squeezed Sherlock's arm. “Please.”

Sherlock put the bottle down and turned to face him. “Mean it, John. You have to mean it.”

John moved his hand down to Sherlock’s waist and gently pushed him against the counter. “I do, I do mean it.”

“Oh god.” Sherlock’s heart banged against his chest like it was about to beat right out of it.

“I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, speechless.

John reached up with his free hand and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck. He pulled, lightly, to bring Sherlock’s mouth down to his. He brushed his lips against Sherlock’s a few times and then licked at Sherlock’s lower lip.

Sherlock felt as if he were about to float away. He put his hands on John’s shoulders to ground himself, to bring himself back to reality. Years of watching John lick his lips and now Sherlock knew what that tongue felt like against his own.

John pulled away, breathing heavily. “Does that feel good, Sherlock? I can’t believe I’m tasting your mouth, those glorious lips.” He leaned back in and took another kiss. And another. One more. “Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Finally, John. Finally.” Sherlock pulled him back in, reeling at the flood of sensations that flowed through his body. Just a few kisses and he was already getting hard. He didn’t stop to think what that meant, just continued to kiss John as if he’d die otherwise.

They kissed for what seemed like ages. Gentle, pecking kisses. Longer nuzzling ones. The slightest hint of tongue. Soft licks and harder ones. Their hands roamed, moving from hips to backs to necks until they both cradled each other’s heads. When John licked a long stripe up Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock retaliated by clutching John’s arse. They both moaned and Sherlock got even harder.

Sherlock shifted to relieve the pressure against his back from the counter, which brought John closer to him. And oh, OH. John was just as hard. With that, they crushed their bodies together and their gentle kisses turned intense, their hands more frantic. John’s tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s in John’s. 

John, brave John, palmed Sherlock through his trousers. “Fuck, Sherlock. Is this real?”

“Evidence would suggest.” Sherlock willed himself not to come in his pants, but it was a close call. John Watson’s tongue was just in his mouth and now John Watson’s hand was on his cock. It was almost too much to bear.

“Solid evidence by the feel of it,” snickered John.

Sherlock laughed. He tried to hold it in but felt helpless against it. “Your hand is on my cock, John.”

John giggled and dropped his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Say that again.”

“What? Hand?” He nuzzled the top of John's head, inhaled his achingly familiar scent.

“You tease.” John gave him a firm stroke.

Sherlock wanted to wail. “My cock. John, my John, you’re touching my cock.”

“I can't believe this is happening.” He continued to stroke. 

“How many times do I have to tell you it is?” Sherlock pushed his hips harder into John’s, into that steady, capable hand. “Not sure I can be more obvious about it.”

“This has been a long time coming, Sherlock.”

A beat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and at that, John lost it. He removed his hands and bent over, laughing almost on the verge of hysteria.

“Oh my god, this is too much. Too much.” John’s hands were braced on his knees and he heaved with laughter.

“Not enough, I’d say. Don’t stop, I don’t want you to stop.” Sherlock rubbed John’s back.

“And that’s it exactly. You’re _drunk_. We both are. Very, very drunk.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want this, want you.”

John tore himself away. “I’m sorry, I need…Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock sighed and let go of John. He ran a hand through his thoroughly disheveled curls. “Is this when you have an identity crisis?”

John stepped back further. “Of course not. Don’t say that, you know that's not what it is. We should wait until we’ve sobered up more, yeah?”

“No, don’t do this, John. Don’t talk yourself out of this.”

“I’m not, Sherlock, I’m really not. We’re just…we need to slow it down. Let’s take a breather here, yeah?”

Sherlock’s heart stuttered. “John, no. It’s okay.”

“We’re too drunk, Sherlock. I can’t know if this is what you really want.”

“When have we ever thought first, acted later? Listen, John. This—” He waved his hand between them. “This is a good thing, the very best. We’re going to be okay. Let’s go sit down and we’ll figure out the rest.” He gestured vaguely towards his cock.

“Good. Yeah, that’s…good.” John headed out of the kitchen.

Sherlock watched as John dropped himself in his chair. He took a deep breath, and then another. His heart was still racing and he needed a moment to pull himself together before facing John in the next room. Not even he could have predicted a night that started with a couple of drinks would end with them pissed and practically frotting in the kitchen at Baker Street. It was rather hilarious. And terrifying. Everything had changed and he could only hope they weren't ruined. Right, soldiers now, he told himself, and then he walked over to his chair.

John watched as Sherlock sat down across from him and adjusted himself. He smirked. “Okay over there?”

“I was doing just fine before,” Sherlock grumbled.

“No, don’t be like that, Sherlock. We needed to slow down. I don’t want to come in my pants the first time. I don’t want you to either. We deserve more.”

“We deserve each other.”

John didn’t respond, just leaned back, and gazed at Sherlock.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the music still playing on Sherlock's phone and the faint sounds of street traffic that drifted through the open window. 

Sherlock cracked first and tried for a bit of levity. “Will you come home, John? Mrs Hudson is tired of making my tea. She could stand a break.”

“Oh, I see. You want me back for my superior tea-making skills.”

“And your toast. Don’t forget the bins, either. Hudders gets tetchy when I neglect to put them out.”

“Ah, is that so.”

Sherlock went for broke. “Baker Street will always be here for you, John. As long as it’s my home, it will be yours. I’ve never considered it anything other than ours.” He cleared his throat. “I think you should come back.”

John rubbed his hand across his eyes. “God, Sherlock. Baker Street has always been my home, yeah? Even when I’m not here, I think about it. It’s home, it is. I don’t know why I’ve been so stubborn about coming back. I thought after everything, after all we put each other through, after the way I hurt you so horribly...that I didn't belong back here, didn't belong with you.”

“But you do. I’m just going to say it. I am.” Sherlock swallowed. Soldiers now. “John, I want you here, I want you closer. I’m not…fully _me_ , not without you.”

“I’ve never been right without you.”

“Will you come back? You and little Watson?”

John’s eyes were wet. Sherlock wanted to reach out but held back. This had to be John’s choice. He needed to be all in.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I’ll come back. Rosie and I belong here. I want her to grow up with you in her life. _I_ want to grow old with you in my life. I’ve denied myself long enough. I’ve gotten too good at denying myself. No more.”

“I’m all in, John. I have been from the very beginning, even if I didn’t realize it then. I’m tired of denying myself too. You and I. We belong together. We do.” He jutted his chin out, as if daring John to rebuff him.

John didn’t. “We do. Me and Rosie, though. We’re a package deal. There’s no me without her anymore.”

“I know, John, I know.”

“I’ve always, always dropped everything for you. I always put you first, before, even when maybe I shouldn’t have. I can’t anymore, Sherlock. I won’t abandon her again. I’d never forgive myself if I did. She’s my sweet Rosie and she’s my priority now”

“I’d never ask that of you. She’s my priority now too.”

John sat up and leaned forward. “You mean that, Sherlock?”

“Of course. I do. She is most important.” He leaned forward as well and took John’s hands in his. “I made a vow, remember? You both are. You said you’re a package deal. You and I? We are too. We’ve always been.”

John gripped Sherlock’s hands tightly. “Yeah, that’s true. We have been, haven’t we? But now there will be three of us. I need know that’s okay before I come back, before we become anything more.”

“I want you both here. You and Rosie. I don’t function well without you, John. And now that means Rosie.”

“It’s the same for me, has been since the day you knocked me on my arse in the lab at Barts and then healed my leg the very next day.”

“I did do that, didn’t I.” Sherlock beamed.

“Yes, you did.” John let go of Sherlock’s hands and stood up. “Are we done with the serious part of the evening? Only I don't think I can handle any more deep confessions."

"I'm not opposed to returning to some of our earlier activities." 

John huffed out a laugh. "Dance with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me, stand up and dance with me. You’ve been aching to dance all night, I can tell. Dance with me now.”

Sherlock stood, only a bit wobbly. He faltered, suddenly nervous even though they had had their hands all over each other just a few minutes ago. That was still a blur, that tangle of tongues. This moment, this one right here, was where they would begin again.

Sensing the truth behind his hesitation, John stepped in. He drew a finger down the side of Sherlock’s face and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. “It’s all good,” he whispered, dropping one more kiss before wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

“John.” Unable to say any more, Sherlock hugged back, tightly.

They began to dance, slowly and not quite gracefully, but finally together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph are from _Turn the Radio On_ by Keane.


End file.
